


Metanoia

by scripturiennt



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Discovery, Spiritual Angst, nothing after ca:tws is canon, tags will be updated as the story expands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scripturiennt/pseuds/scripturiennt
Summary: Metanoia: n. (Greek); to turn around, to reverse directions. Often translated in Biblical scripture as 'to repent'.His life has certain infallible outcomes: violence will continue to be his closest companion, in sleep and in waking; Steve Rogers can never be his friend like back then, not if they are both honest with each other; and James himself refuses to carry on as the ghost of his former self. He is not James Buchanan Barnes, he is not the Winter Soldier. He is…something else, something nebulous and undeveloped, an embryo generating its first heartbeat. The pieces of his many lives lay scattered at his feet, but the room in which he stands is dark and cold and he has not yet grasped them all. Once he holds them all, he will gather them together, form them into something new. Someone new.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

_Clack, clack, clack._

Snow, falling, dark. 

_Clack clack clack._

White again. Lightness, masked faces, numbing.

_Clack clack clack clack_

Splintering, severing, cut, gone. _Mr. Barnes._

_Clack clack clack clack clack_

Named. You had a name. What was it? 

_Clack clack clack_

What was it?

_CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK_

What was your NAME. 

_CLACK CLACK CLACK––_

NAME. 

He stumbles into waking like a drunken man, hungover with memories. So many memories, but the same dream every time. Every fucking time. 

_Clack, clack, clack._

The empty car of a west-bound train. Seventy-two hours since Then. He measures time in miles, distance between him and the one he remembered and the ones who made him forget. And it’s never quite far enough.

He is tired of the train car, though. Tired of the smell (which is mostly coming from him), tired of the _clack clack clack_ rattling endlessly in his head. Maybe that’s where the nightmare is coming from. He doesn’t have a pleasant history with trains. 

Pastel lines of daylight pierce through the wooden slats of the traincar; it’s just before sunrise. Waiting for the next stop is both pointless and counterproductive to secrecy, so he climbs out the top and makes a leap for it, crashing into and flattening dozens of rows of corn. He stays low until the train has passed, retrieving his duffle bag and checking for any broken bones. A fresh tear in his jacket presents a problem; he can’t have locals noticing the prosthetic arm. For now, however, alone with the wind and the raspy breathing of the corn field, that risk is minimal. 

He follows the tracks back the way he came until they intersect with an unpaved road. From there he turns south, noting the recent tire marks in the gravel. 

It only takes about 20 minutes of walking for the gravel to turn into asphalt; a handful of cars have passed within that time, but he’s unremarkable–and filthy–enough for the drivers to not give more than a second look. About twenty more minutes and he comes across a quiet, two-pump gas station. A single truck is parked outside; he waits until the driver walks inside to pay and then slides into the front seat, hotwiring the ignition with a screwdriver in less than a minute. 

He much prefers the grumble of the uneven roads to the rattling of train tracks. It occurs to him that he’s not driving anywhere in particular; the general need for _away_ -ness is all that pushes at his mind. Somehow, this isn’t worrying. For the first time since––well, perhaps for the first time––there’s an unfolding in his gut, a clarity of mind. There’s a word for this, he thinks. But it refuses to make itself known, so he leaves it be. 

It’s close to midday when he pulls over to switch the license plates on the truck, placing the front plate on the rear and stashing the remaining plate underneath the passenger seat. He’s passed through a handful of towns already, all equally unassuming and weather-worn. Half the businesses are closed down, and the other half are simply closed, and this puzzles him until he notices the cars lining the block outside every church he passes. It’s Sunday, and the populace at large was asleep in the pews. The consequent absence of patrol cars has also been comforting; between the long stretches of farmland broken by not-quite-ghost-towns, he feels invisible in the best possible way. _How different from New York. From Moscow._

Because he’s run away before, of course. The details are foggy, but the poor success rate is obvious. Too many people around, too many _eyes_. And at the end of it all, cold dark slumber. 

Sleep itself was innocuous. It was waking up he’d always feared.

Several more miles pass before he stops again, this time at a 24-hour convenience store. He’d ignored his body’s demand for food as long as he could, but the fatigue from three days of restless sleep and malnourishment had finally become unbearable. So he piles as many snacks as he can into the shopping basket, not caring so much for taste as for portability. Money was no object either, as he’d emptied all the HYDRA caches that he knew of before hopping on the west-bound train. 

The long wait at the check-out line, however, makes him nervous. The cashier––a scrawny young man with a pathetic line of hair gracing his upper lip––repeatedly glances at him, eyes wide like a cornered animal’s.

“So…what brings you to Jonesville?” the cashier finally asks, flashing a small grimace that was probably intended to be a smile.

“Road trip.” he replies, not untruthfully. 

“Oh yeah, just–just passing through?” 

He nods, and the conversation dies. The cashier’s hands shake as he accepts the cash, and he barely tips his head when told to keep the change.

He doesn’t have to look behind him to know that the cashier pulled out his cellphone the instant he left the convenience store, plastic bag in hand. 

_Shit_.

He pulls the truck out of the convenience store lot and heads the opposite way he came, hoping to misdirect the cashier and whoever he’s calling before looping around elsewhere and returning to his original route. 

Just before sunset, a black SUV swings out behind him from a narrow side street. The windows are tinted, headlights off; the driver keeps a careful distance, but a steady pace.

HYDRA is anything but subtle. 

He decides to play their game for the moment; he doesn’t accelerate or change direction, but continues down the same monotonous stretch of road, past silos and cattle and decaying, once-red barns. The setting sun glares golden into his eyes.

A tightness grows in his chest that resists every time he breathes. It makes him grip the steering wheel tighter, makes his skin itch and teeth clench with the anticipation of capture. Of cold dark slumber. 

_I can’t go back. I can’t, I canticanticanticani––_

_Shut up. You’re the fucking Winter Soldier._

The sun sets, and the SUV begins to close the distance. 

\--

They’re following so closely that he can see the outlines of both driver and passenger reflected by his taillights. Without warning, they swerve over to the opposite lane, accelerating until they pull even with his truck. He knows what’s coming, so he pulls out his pistol and shoots first. It takes a few shots to shatter both his passenger-side window and the driver’s window of the SUV, but they fall behind him once more.

A shattering _crash_ and his back windshield disintegrates under a barrage of bullets. He jerks the steering wheel violently to the left, hearing the bullets clank dully into the side of the truck. 

He slams on the brakes, then accelerates to ram into the bumper of the SUV, sending it skidding, but not losing control. He pulls back to try again, harder, watching the passenger side carefully in case they turn their automatic weapon on him again.

Then, he sees the second SUV headed directly toward him. No time to react––the impact knocks him forward, and he hears the _crack_ of his skull against the steering wheel as he blacks out.

\--

“Aren’t you ever tired, Father?”

Michael smiles. “All the time, Steven. All the time.” 

“You know, you don’t have to stay to lock up. I can do it myself just fine.”

“It’s fine, really. I appreciate the time alone, the silence. There’s something holy about silence, you know.”

Steven doesn’t look convinced, placing a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “I don’t envy your position, Reverend. This is…a _lot_ for one man to step into. I get that you want to do your best in serving this parish. But please––know that we all understand if you need rest. I can teach the homily this Sunday, even.” 

“I’ll consider it.” he promises, having it already considered. 

“Alright, then. Good night, Reverend.” 

\--

Michael steps into the cool emptiness of the darkened sanctuary, and prays. Gently, slowly, making his way down the center aisle, he touches the end of the pews with his fingertips and tries to remember each face that he saw that evening. There were only thirty tonight, maybe that many this morning. And he never forgets a face.

“Father…”

Wood creaks beneath his feet, and he tastes the lingering scent of incense on his tongue.

“…your children are hurting.” 

This is not his parish. No, Michael hails from a diocese in New York, a deceptively glamorous setting that masks the turmoil beneath. Here, the turmoil burns bright, a fresh wound that he sees reflected in the eyes of every man and woman that visits these pews. 

“I have no idea why I’m here, to be quite honest.” 

Not two months ago, he was politely––but firmly––informed by his bishop that he would be replacing the former presbyter of this church, in light of particularly damning circumstances. These circumstances, for the most part, were withheld from him. All he knew was that it involved multiple women from the congregation. Young women. Too young. 

“I cannot heal them. I…cannot even bring them comfort.”

He’s a stranger in a strange land. 

“Why–” Just like that, he’s getting caught up in himself again. _This isn’t about me_ . _It was never about me._ It’s all too easy to nurse one’s doubts; the sting of _I’m not good enough_ is a dangerous itch, a distraction.

“I can only assume that You want me here. If so, then–” Reaching the last pew, Michael pauses mid-step, feeling as though what he wants to say borders on impolite. As a friend once pointed out, for a man of God, he’s strangely afraid of asking too much. This thought holds him in tension for a moment, deliberating. 

“Thy will be done.” he says, finally. 

Uncounted seconds pass. His eyes grow weary of staring into the dimness of the nave, but he remains fixated, listening.

 _Talk to me, please_. 

The heavy creaking of the sanctuary doors––the ones he had fully intended to lock––disturbs his lonesome meditation, and Michael turns to see the broad silhouette of a man slouched in the entryway.

“Can I help you?” Michael asks instinctively, stepping forward. No response; the man leans harder against the open door, head dipping low as he takes in wet, jagged breaths. Michael stiffens at the sound; this man is clearly drunk (or worse), and the priestly role doesn’t exactly equip one for physical confrontation. 

“Sir? Are you alright?” Against his better judgement, Michael approaches the stranger, who appears to collect himself for a moment.

“S’this a church?” The words are mumbled and thick. 

“Yes.” Michael says quietly, flipping up the switch adjacent to the door. “You are welcome here.” 

Illuminated feebly by the ensconced ceiling lights, the stranger sags forward, shuddering in pain. “Good,” he replies, trailing off into a ghost of a laugh. Michael stares numbly at him. 

_God have mercy._ His face is covered in blood. 

But that’s hardly all of it; one arm clutches his side, fingers stained dark, while the other hand tightly grasps a black duffle bag. His hair is past the shoulder and unkempt, face unshaven; his clothes are worn and covered in dirt, blood, and who knows what else.

“I could use a place to stay the night.” 

“I…” Michael chokes a little. “I think you could use a trip to the hospital first.” 

“ _No_.” The man straightens up, glowering. “No hospitals.”

“I beg your pardon?” 

“I’ve had worse.” The flat honesty of the statement sends a chill down Michael’s spine. Before he can offer more objections, the stranger shuffles into the nave, letting the weighty door slam behind him. 

_If ye love me, feed my sheep._

Michael shakes his head. God really did have a fucked-up sense of humor. 

“There’s a basement downstairs.” he tells the stranger, with a touch of resignation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editing? I don't know her.


	2. Chapter 2

_ The Buchanans were religious in the American sense. Every Sunday, Mother would fuss over James, making sure he looked ‘just so’ before walking out the door. He didn’t understand it, all this fuss over looking nice for one day of the week. Mother was the only one who wanted to go, anyway; Father didn’t care. Or at least, he never said so, and he always fell asleep during the sermon. During the service, James would fidget on the pew, swinging his legs until Mother shot him a threatening look and a short, potent “shush!”. Afterward, he’d play with the other boys while the adults socialized over coffee and doughnuts. One time, he tore the knee of his Sunday-best pants, and Mother marched him to the car right then and there to have a chat about ‘manners’, ‘respect’, and ‘now-i-have-to-fix-these’, ‘do-you-know-how-much-these-cost’. She had always been so concerned about appearances.  _

_ Father didn’t concern himself with anything. Which was why James was a little surprised when one afternoon he asked: _

_ “Do you know why they call it a sanctuary?” _

_ James shrugged, uninterested. He was only eight; how was he supposed to know these things?  _

_ “Because it’s a safe place. Anyone can come here.” _

_ “OK. So?” _

_ Father looked solemn. “That’s a rare thing nowadays, Jamie.” _

_ He always hated it when Father called him ‘Jamie’. It sounded like a girl’s name.  _

_ By the time he was thirteen, he decided he was done with church. He had better things to do, anyway. And after a while, Mother stopped insisting. She and Father got dandied up every Sunday morning, just the same.  _

_ Then, he met Steve.  _

_ \-- _

_ “Whaddaya mean you can’t play with us on Sunday? It’s the weekend.” The boys from school were going to have a baseball match. Steve usually didn’t play much because of his bad lungs, but on a good day he could be the pitcher. And James wanted him there, regardless.  _

_ “I told you, I go to Mass.” _

_ James pulled a face. “You mean church?” _

_ “I mean Mass.” _

_ “Aren’t you too old for that?”  _

_ Steve glanced at him quizzically. “You don’t grow out of church, Bucky.” _

_ “Yeah, you do. All those boring hymns and long speeches. Everyone sits there and pretends to listen and then goes home and does exactly what they did before. Waste of time. I don’t need that shit.”  _

_ “Long speeches.” Steve was still confused. “What kinda church do you go to?” _

_ “I dunno.” He tried to remember the long word Mother taught him all those years ago. “Presbyterian? Yeah, that sounds right.” _

_ “Oh. You’re Protestant.” _

_ “I guess.” _

_ “Our church isn’t like that.” Steve said, quietly. “Ma and Pa say it reminds them of home, even if they talk different here. So I go with them.”  _

_ “That’s nice.” James was still pissed; he didn’t see why anyone would pass up their best friend to go sit in a pew for the whole morning.  _

_ “I can still come watch.” Steve added, sensing the disappointment. “I just won’t be there for the first couple of innings.”  _

_ “Nah, it’s cool.”  _

_ \-- _

_ Shortly after high school began, James had made a habit of walking Steve home. Steve would never have asked him to, of course. But they learned quickly that the bullies didn’t just stay in the schoolyard. James didn’t say anything the first time Steve got beat up, just to save his pride; instead, from that day on he silently accompanied him back to his house across the tracks. Surprisingly, Steve never protested.  _

_ “You could come if you wanted, y’know.”  _

_ “I dunno, Steve. Thought they didn’t like my type there.” James was being purposefully flippant; he didn’t have to look to know that Steve rolled his eyes. _

_ “You can come. Anyone can come. You just can’t take the Eucharist if you’re not Catholic. That’s the only rule.” _

_ “Well I’m not anything, so I guess it doesn’t matter to me anyhow.” He kicked at a bottle cap, watching it skitter across the sidewalk. “What’s so special about this Sunday again?” _

_ “It’s fucking Easter, Bucky.” Steve sounded mollified, punching James in the arm after noticing the impish grin on his friend’s face. James staggered a bit in mock pain and then laughs, and Steve couldn’t help but join in. _

_ “C’mon, Buck. We’ll be there for a few hours, there’s gonna be music, and then at the end––at midnight––there’s a gigantic meal. And I know your parents are gonna be out at services, too. Most people will. I didn’t want you to be alone for Easter.”  _

_ James shrugged. “I can manage.” he mumbled, slightly embarrassed.  _

_ He went anyway. _

_ After that, there was only one other time they attended church together.  _

_ \-- _

_ “Incline Thy ear, O Lord, to the prayers with which we suppliantly entreat Thy mercy, and do Thou, in a place of peace and rest, establish the souls of Thy servants…” _

_ Two graves, side-by-side. _

_ “…Joseph and Sarah Rogers.” _

_ James put a hand on Steve’s shoulder, feeling his friend shake beneath his touch. Guilt rushes into his chest, painful and sudden; he’d never put in any effort towards things like this. He wasn’t a good Christian boy. But both his parents were still alive.  _

_ Funny how that worked.  _

_ \-- _

_ “You’re shipping out tomorrow, right?” _

_ “Yep.”  _

_ Steve dug something out of his pocket. “Here. Take this with you.” _

_ James took the necklace, examining the small, circular charm attached. “What’s this, some sort of good-luck thing? I didn’t think you were the sentimental type, Steve.”  _

_ Steve snorted. “Don’t be an ass. It’s a medal––not that kind of medal, though. It’s Saint Christopher.” _

_“Who’s he?”_ _  
__“He’s the patron saint of travelers. My ma always wore it, said he kept her and dad safe when they came across the ocean. And I just thought…” he shrugged. “Y’know. Since I’m not going. I’d send that with you instead.”_

_ “Oh.” It’s gonna take a lot more than a magic charm to keep me safe, pal _ ,  _ he thought. But he placed the necklace in his shirt pocket all the same. _

\--

It’s 1945, and the medal hangs just beneath his dog tags.

“I’m not a praying man…” Artillery thunders not ten yards off; his eyes scan the dark and find no one. He’s alone. They  _ left him _ . 

“…but _oh_ _God––_ ” he swallows, and for the first time in his life, feels terror. 

“Oh God.” Words clinging to his throat. 

The rumble stops, the shooting stops. There’s shouting in the distance, not English, no that’s German and he’s  _ fucked _ . 

_ Oh, oh GOD. _

He tosses his empty weapon to the ground and desperately rummages through his uniform to find anything that could save him, his eyes are stinging and blurring and goddammit he can’t  _ see _ . 

“Don’t let me die here, don’t let me die here  _ please–– _ ” 

\--

He doesn’t fully remember waking up from the crash, or anything in the confrontation that must have happened afterward. He’s alive, so that had to mean his attackers were dead. That was the usual progression of events, anyhow. 

His first moment of clarity happens in the middle of an unlit street, the wreck far behind him. Blood is everywhere, hands, clothes, face––some is his, some isn’t. The pain is enough to slow him down, his steps uneven and heavy. But he keeps walking. 

It is Now, and one word echoes through his head. 

_ Sanctuary _ .

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why must writing involve a "cohesive narrative" and "organization"? is it not enough that I string multiple unrelated conversations together with maybe a paragraph of context inbetween? featuring: vague references to Steve's Irish immigrant roots. 
> 
> :P I'm having way too much fun with this. Hope you enjoy.


	3. Chapter 3

He can’t stay long. It only took HYDRA three days to spot him, and after the crash he knows that word will get around. It always does. Violence is drawn to him. 

A voice in the dusty corners of his mind whispers that perhaps he’s trusting the priest a little too much,  _ you’ll have to kill him after this, you know. He’ll sell you out like all the others. Once he leaves he’s going to call the police. You shouldn’t have let him see you at all. Just snap his neck and go, find somewhere else––SHUT UP.  _

He barks the last phrase out loud, unconsciously. The father flinches, but recovers quickly and says,

“The basement’s just over here. It’s not furnished––we use it for storage, mainly. But you can stay there for the night, at least.” 

All he can manage is a grunt of acknowledgement, muted by the sudden pulse of pain in his side. The bullet wound is getting hard to ignore. 

\--

Michael is no idiot. He’s seen dozens of questionable individuals walk through his doors: drug addicts, alcoholics, men and women covered in the filth of the streets that they call home. They all came for the same reason: shelter, a chance at reform, a longing for community. And he offered it to them, within reason. Of course, there were always people that better belonged at the police station or penitentiary––hospital, mostly––and though perhaps they eventually ended up one of those places by the end of the night, Michael never turned them away. Not unless they provoked him, threatened his safety or someone else’s. 

To the layman’s eye––and even to his own––this man reeks of criminality. The blood, the suspiciously bulky bag (heavy with weapons, no doubt), the glazed-over eyes matched with the stubborn grasp on consciousness. Everything about his posture, however, speaks of  _ soldier _ , the kind of man that refuses to die unless every conceivable force of nature unites to act upon his demise. Michael is flipping a proverbial coin, and he knows it. 

So he lets him in, watches the man half-stumble down the stairs to the basement, refusing any assistance. 

“I can walk,” he says, shortly.

“For now.” Michael replies, sotto voce. 

\--

James settles in a damp corner of the basement, concealed from anyone coming down the steps. It’s not ideal, having only one exit. But he’s fought his way out of worse. 

The priest wordlessly places a first-aid kit on the ground nearby, and then straightens up. Backlit by an exposed bulb dangling from the ceiling, he almost cuts an imposing figure. James meets his gaze. 

“You’re looking for something.” It’s not a question. The priest stares at him, not examining, but attempting to understand. To read him. “It might just be a place to stay, for now. And I will respect that as much as I can. I’m not calling the police, and you can take shelter in here until Friday. Then, I must politely request that you leave. I will help you find other means of living if need be, barring any…illegality that you should account for. But for now, I’m trusting you.” 

“Don’t––” he hesitates. “Don’t break that trust.” 

James nods, not missing the allusion to his unsavory appearance. The candidness of the reverend intrigues him; he had been prepared to offer his own ultimatum, after all. But now, he is the one required to uphold the bargain. How ironic.

“Last thing. I’ve stitched up quite a few injuries in my time––it’s what happens when you have five brothers.” He smiles a bit, reminiscent. “You look like you could use some help. If you would rather me leave you for the night, that’s alright too. But, the offer is there.”

The weariness hits James all at once––the hunger, the pain, the withdrawal of adrenaline––as though the priest’s words had  _ allowed  _ him to feel them. He exhales, the slight motion of his ribcage sending spasms through the hole in his middle. Jaw clenched, he waits for it to subside enough for him to speak. 

“Sure.” 

\--

It’s a silent and grisly business. Michael forces himself to maintain an outward calm, nevermind the fact that he’s currently cleaning a  _ bullet wound _ ––something he has never done in his life and has no qualifications for. His brothers had never hurt themselves this badly, though the time that Isaac had gotten glass in his knee and then stupidly pulled it out was a marked memory in his mind. They weren’t always the most careful, his brothers. 

The man is stoic for the most part, only showing signs of pain in the tension of his shoulders or the way his breath hitches before releasing. There’s not too much blood coming out of the wound, which is both good and confusing. Michael is no medical expert, but his instincts tell him that a straight-through bullet wound should be much more severe than this. By all accounts, this man should be  _ dead _ . Oh well. He’s not exactly going to complain, now, is he? 

Placing the rubbing alcohol aside, Michael attempts to thread a surgical needle. He’d put on medical gloves just before, and now they’re slippery with blood that makes the delicate process near impossible. He struggles for a few seconds, which feels like hours with the man’s eyes on him. 

“Sorry.” he says, embarrassed at his own ineptitude. The man doesn’t respond, but instead tips his head against the basement wall, still watching. It’s not out of curiosity, he realizes; it’s a precaution. For whatever reason, Michael is still a threat in his eyes––though, perhaps, so is everyone. 

Finally, the thread makes it through. Michael gives a warning before he begins stitching, and the man visibly flinches when the needle goes in. After that, the process is simple––seven stitches and he finishes, cleaning around the wound and taping down a gauze bandage afterward. 

“I’ll need you to lie on your stomach now.” 

The man complies, and Michael sees that the exit wound is so, so much worse. How the  _ hell _ did you survive this, he wonders, but still doesn’t ask. 

“Five brothers?”

It takes a moment for Michael to register the question.  _ Good Lord, he’s actually making conversation _ . “Oh––yes. Two younger, three older. We were…we were close. For a while. Not so much anymore.” 

No response; he hears ragged breathing and guesses that the pain has spiked again. He continues stitching. 

“I think it was the whole priest thing that did it.” he says eventually, not caring whether he’s being heard or not. “None of us were raised in church. They were confused, I think. It felt like betrayal.” He ties up the last stitch and places the needle aside, wringing his hand to rid it of tension. “Your family is supposed to be your people, and then I found somewhere else to belong. But that’s just how it is, I suppose.”

Repeat: cleaning, gauze, tape. Michael leans back from his work and feels every muscle in his shoulders and back reject the movement. He has no idea what time it is, how long it’s been since he started. 

Slowly, agonizingly, the man pulls himself back up to a sitting position, eyes distant, burned with exhaustion. His lips part as though he’s going to speak, but doesn’t right away. Then, as though mustering the strength: “Thank you.” 

Michael nods appreciatively. “If you need anything else, let me know. I’ll be back in the morning.”  _ Please be alive _ . 

He keeps the basement light on when he leaves. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> productivity levels at unusual high due to universities being shut down indefinitely, ladies can i get an 'amen'
> 
> n e ways if you enjoyed it (or if you hated it i guess lol), leave a comment! it's not like you have anything else to do with your time…
> 
> also in the next chapter we get some Father Michael backstory and it's gonna be littt 
> 
> k bye


	4. Chapter 4

As Michael leaves the church, he wonders how the situation would have changed had any of the deacons been present; he hasn’t been here long, but he doubts that any of them would have hesitated to call the police. That either makes him uniquely generous or uniquely stupid––possibly both.

It’ll be fine. The church is left unlocked during the week anway, in case anyone wished to pray or meditate there. Stephen takes the offering home every night in a lockbox, and nothing in the sanctuary is really worth stealing, not for any practical thief anyway. And this man doesn’t seem like a petty criminal. No, he’s definitely a murderer if anything at all, and that’s the part that scares Michael a little bit––that in the coming days, he’ll hear on the news that a convict is on the loose, discover he’s harbored a fugitive, and just like that he’s being arrested for an act of ignorant kindness. The world once again will have ammunition to sneer at the naivete of the faithful, and he will have to bear the moral burden of inhibiting justice. 

He knows the risks. Faith is no substitute for common sense, but Michael would like to think that, in this instance, he acted upon both. Only the morning will tell. 

The clock in his car reads 12:38 when he pulls up to the small, church-owned house, headlights pooling on the cracked concrete. The rector before him had lived here, and given the ambiguous and sudden nature of his retirement, some of his belongings were still inside, in boxes. Michael vaguely remembers being told that someone was going to come by and pick them up, but that had been months ago.  _ I should do something about that _ , he thinks, walking up the porch steps,  _ but later, later. Too much to focus on now. _

He’s got a man in the basement, and a prayer service on Wednesday, followed by a church-wide dinner. And a man in the basement, who definitely can’t be there during the dinner.  _ Shit _ . A sigh follows this thought, loud and heavy. 

“You can fix this tomorrow.” he tells himself, firmly. “For now––” he shoves the front door open–– “you’re going to bed. Bed, bed, bed, bed.” 

As he steps into the entryway, a  _ mrowl  _ echoes from the landing of the stairs. “I know you’re hungry, Twiddle, but I fed you already.” he mumbles, feeling the little creature wrap itself around his calf. Twiddle gives a questioning  _ prrp _ and continues knocking against Michael’s leg in protest. He relents and scratches the top of Twiddle’s head before heading upstairs; the cat follows him into his room and settles at the foot of the bed, content.

Michael sleeps, and he dreams of his brothers. 

\--

_ Isaac, where are you going? Mom said come inside. The sun’s going down, and it’ll get dark soon.  _

_ He’s not moving. _

_ Why are you cold? _

_ You’re so cold, Isaac.  _

_ So cold _

––not again. Michael opens his eyes, glancing towards the window. The sky is just barely beginning to pale. His phone reads 5:11; not nearly enough sleep, but it’s as much as he’s going to get after that dream. It’s been the same one ever since coming to this parish, and each time it feels more absurd because Isaac is still alive and he  _ knows _ this. But he still wakes up disturbed, a leaden weight lodged beneath his ribcage. Something like guilt, he thinks, but how can he feel guilty over something that never happened? 

Sitting up, he scrubs the tiredness from his eyes as Twiddle stretches to her full length across his feet. Hands flop into his lap, he can’t decide what to do, and then he checks his phone and it’s 5:30 and he’s somehow spent almost fifteen minutes staring into the dim blue of his bedroom, fixated on nothing at all. 

_ He’s lying on a shitty mattress in a shitty motel in some shitty town he doesn’t know the name of; the box springs creak every time he breathes and dust motes sink through the air by the thin curtains. The thought comes to him––if he dies right now, no one will know. He wonders if maybe he should find some sort of freedom in this. Nothing matters, and now he can drink himself to death. Or do drugs. Or something. The options for self-ruin are endless. _

_ Instead, he just watches the dust.  _

_ Nothing matters. _

All he has to do is get out of bed. It’s not that hard. Not that hard, he tells himself, and the blue on his bedroom wall grows brighter. 

Twiddle yawns, a tiny flash of pink on a grey smudge, and decides that biting Michael’s feet through the covers is far more interesting than sleeping. He shoves her aside gently, and she hops off the bed, insulted. Michael laughs to himself just the smallest amount, and somehow that gives him the impetus to move. 

\--

James doesn’t sleep. Even though the priest had said he could stay for a few days, he still plans to leave as soon as he can walk without too much pain. Every couple of hours he tests his range of motion and checks his injuries. After four hours, the bullet wound has almost completely scabbed over. The rest of his wounds are superficial; he’ll bruise, maybe have a limp for a few days, but nothing will last for long. It never does. (That’s why they didn’t care about hurting him; it was all temporary anyway.)

He zips up his jacket over the bloodied shirt, slinging the duffle bag over his left shoulder. A quick scan around the basement shows that he won’t be leaving any traces behind; for all the priest knows, he never existed. And that’s for the better. A man like him––compassionate, well-intentioned––would only get caught in the crossfire. 

It takes about twenty minutes of walking from the church to find a cheap motel; he pays for two week’s stay, and despite the large amount of cash the receptionist doesn’t seem that intrigued, but merely hands him his room key and directs him towards the stairs. 

The room is good enough: the carpet is speckled with bleach stains and other, darker, he-really-doesn’t-want-to-know stains, and he can already hear the sounds of his neighbors through the walls. The smell of disinfectant hangs in the air, mingled with cigarette smoke and mildew. 

He throws the duffle bag onto the bed and steps into the bathroom, flinching at the sight of himself in the mirror. Not because he doesn’t recognize his own face but because  _ Jesus _ , he looks awful. Bloodshot eyes stare glassily out of a pale face. His jaw and cheeks are covered in dark stubble; the dark bruising beneath his eyes matches the raised, purple-yellow welt on his forehead. His hair hangs in matted chunks almost down to his shoulders, and he doesn’t have to touch it to know that there’s dried blood caked on his scalp along with who knows what else. Dandruff, probably. 

No wonder the receptionist wasn’t impressed. She sees a dozen people like him every day. He can’t let himself look this pathetic forever: nothing says ‘fugitive’ more than a bloodstained hobo. 

\--

It’s 9:00 AM and he misses his truck. Sure, he’s the Winter Soldier and he can do damn near anything, but walking everywhere is a pain in the ass. It’s just warm and sticky enough for the jacket to be uncomfortable, but it’s not coming off until he has new clothes––which means walking all the way downtown. 

He stops at a consignment store with handless mannequins in the front windows, spending over an hour guessing at sizes and caring little about style. He’s going for normal, not fashionable. (But he has to admit, his legs pretty damn fine in black jeans.) Arms laden with denim and dark long-sleeves, he walks up to the register and much to his dismay, the cashier begins conversation immediately. 

“You hear about all the shit going down in D.C.? Crazy shit, man. Can’t believe someone actually tried to kill Captain America.” 

“Yeah. Crazy.” 

“Right? The man’s, like, invincible. You’d have to either be superhuman or completely blitzed to try and take him down. Maybe both. Your total is sixty-three seventy.” 

James gives him a hundred-dollar bill.

“Yeah, and like they still haven’t gotten the guy who shot him, you know? No one knows who it is yet, but I’m telling you man, it’s the Russians. They fucked with the election and now they’re sending in sleeper agents to try and take us down from the inside. I read an article about it, about the whole HYDRA thing. This has been going on since, like, the seventies. And you know why they’re not talking about it on the news, it’s because the government doesn’t want to admit they fucked up, ‘cause they’re the ones that let all this shit happen. They’re covering their asses, protecting all those commies in the White House and Congress and shit. Thirty-six sixty is your change.” 

_ Finally _ . He shoves the change into his jacket pocket, grabs the bags, and flees, ignoring the “have a great one” that follows him out the door. As uncomfortable as the interaction was, he finds it reassuring––it sounds like the Winter Soldier hasn’t made it to the news yet, and if he’s lucky then his face wasn’t caught by any security cameras or civilians with phones. He tries to remember whose idiotic idea it was to send him out to the helicarriers without a mask, effectively turning him into a walking liability. They’d been so careful to preserve his anonymity before, too, and then he remembers: 

_ “Please don’t make me do this.”  _

The last face Steve Rogers would ever see.

_ Oh _ . 

Now  _ that’s  _ fucked. James bites down hard on the inside of his mouth, tasting blood––he is  _ not  _ going to throw up on the sidewalk, even if everything about the thought makes his stomach turn inside out. Head spinning, he leans against a brick storefront until the world comes back into focus and then keeps walking.

_ Also what the hell is a commie, anyway? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whaddup
> 
> I realized I'd promised more Father Michael backstory in this chapter but oh well, I guess that didn't happen. Hey, at least he has a pet now. 
> 
> also, I've been watching Sebastian Stan's post-catws filmography and like…mans has Taste. Also Destroyer was such a good look on him, I'm gonna have Bucky shave his hair at some point in the plot just because of that lmao 
> 
> hope y'all are staying safe and healthy and not forgetting your zoom classes <3


	5. Chapter 5

After showering and eating breakfast, Michael begins his visitation rounds. Many of the members of his congregation had concerns about the rapid change within their parish, and Michael had found that the best method to mitigate this tension was a simple one-on-one discussion, where he answered their questions as honestly as he could. Often, these people would inquire about basic things––the yearly budget, the order of service, the rotation of lectors. He would reassure them that no, he wasn’t planning on making any major changes on his own initiative; it simply wasn’t his place. Then, following other fragments of small talk, the tone of the discussion would inevitably shift. Michael could recognize it in their expressions; a tightness appeared in the lines of their faces, and their gaze would shift to the floor or some other inanimate object. If he was visiting a family, the parents would quietly dismiss their children from the room, and a silence would surround them in which everyone understood what was to be discussed, but no one wished to be the first to mention. 

Because in the end, all these questions were just a formality, a veil over the gaping wound. Michael had quickly realized that his flock were not at all invested in minutiae of church management, but were simply scoping him out, gauging his trustworthiness. When they had deemed him safe––a moment that he recognized, but could never anticipate––then the stumbling divulgences would come out, at first at a trickle but gradually accelerating into a deluge of unresolved grief. These people had had their trust broken and then stomped upon, and his own presence was a reminder of those bitter circumstances. As such, Michael found himself speaking very little in the latter half of these conversations, aware that they did not want a counselor but a listener. These visits often left him emotionally worn and ever more aware of the burden he had been appointed to carry––and carry alone. 

He’s driving back from one such visit when he sees the Man a few yards ahead, walking on the side of the road in the same direction. His clothing has changed since yesterday––black jeans and a navy windbreaker.  _ Strange that he would be wearing such heavy clothing in this weather.  _ This thought is quickly obscured by another:  _ I need to talk to him _ .

About what, Michael has no idea. But the impulse is there, and so he lightly presses on the horn, just enough to get the man’s attention. The man stops and turns, expression unreadable, posture stiff. Michael can’t even tell if the man recognizes him, but he pulls up nonetheless and rolls down the window.

“Hey, stranger.”

The man doesn’t reply but inclines his head slightly; the irony of the greeting seems to be lost on him. Michael grapples for a follow-up, wilting at the sudden awkwardness of this encounter. 

“Um…have you eaten today?” 

The man shakes his head. 

“How about grabbing some lunch? It’s on me.” 

A flicker of apprehension crosses the man’s face, and Michael holds out, expecting a refusal. The man clearly wants to be left alone, and after all, one dramatic nighttime encounter does not equate to a continued relationship (a fact Michael knew to be true from most of his girlfriends in college). 

“Sure.” The man says, catching him off-guard. 

He tries––and fails––to keep the surprise from showing on his face. Collecting himself, Michael gestures back to the passenger seat with his thumb. “Hop in.” 

\--

They end up at a local diner that has been in business longer than Michael has been alive; the checkered linoleum floors are bubbled in spots and many of the booths sport duct-tape patches on their latex upholstery. A lethargic pair of ceiling fans provides the suggestion of a breeze, but nothing more, and Michael is once again amazed that the man neither removes his jacket nor shows any discomfort. 

Thankfully, the quality of the food hardly matches the surroundings, and they settle into a corner booth to eat cheeseburgers and shoestring fries in silence. That’s when Michael notices that the man wears a glove on his left hand, but doesn’t remove it to pick up his food. The man catches him staring and meets his gaze, passively declining to offer an explanation before turning his attention back to his meal. Michael looks away, chastened. 

By the time their food is gone and the waitress has cleared their dishes, the man has relaxed a little, the tension in his shoulders eased. Michael sees the opportunity, and takes it.

“So, I don’t think I got your name last night.”

“James.” The reply is immediate, prepared. 

“Ah. Like the brother of Jesus.” 

James neither confirms nor denies this. His hands remain somewhere underneath the table: one gloved and the other bare, Michael recalls. Part of him wants to ask about the hand, but he fears that it will be tied to some disfigurement or injury; the kind of sensitive information one discloses only when trust has been built. 

“I don’t know your name.” James observes. Michael tells him, and he absorbs this fact without reaction.

“What do you do?” Michael asks. 

“I have no occupation.” Another curt answer.

“Okay. Who shot you last night?”

At that, James clenches his jaw, clearly uncomfortable. 

“Sorry, I’m not trying to interrogate you. It’s just not everyday that I have someone like you come into my church.” He winces, thinking how accusatory that might have sounded. 

“Why didn’t you call the police?” 

“I…because I had no reason to. I said I wouldn’t, and I don’t make a habit of lying.” 

“It could have been in your best interest. You don’t know anything about me.” 

“Well, I’m currently trying to find out more about you.” Michael points out. James frowns; the answer doesn’t convince him, so Michael tries again. “I was following my instincts. I don’t think you’re a criminal.”

“Following your instincts. That doesn’t sound very priestly of you.” Something like a smile crosses James’ face, and Michael realizes that this man has a sense of humor after all; he’s just selective as to when and where he expresses it.

“Personally I think God can speak to us through instinct. When we know we have to do something, go somewhere, but we don’t know why. It compels us.”

“What do you think I am?” James is making direct eye contact now, as if staring will draw the truth out. Michael notes the reversal of roles; he is no longer the questioner. Somehow, he doesn’t mind. 

He parts his lips to answer, and then stops. A simple  _ I don’t know _ should suffice, even prompt James to explain himself a bit more. But Michael knows this answer is not an honest one. So he waits, allowing his intuition to speak within him first. 

“You’re looking for something,” he says at last, repeating his initial guess from that night at the church. After a moment’s pause, he elaborates. “An identity, maybe. A purpose. You’ve lived a long time as someone else, and you want a change, or even a reversal. But there are people who won’t let you disappear so easily. For whatever reason, they’re trying to stop you. So you ran away from them, ended up here. And, I don’t know, you’ve probably killed someone.” He tacks on the last sentence in half-jest, half-seriousness. 

James gives a brief smile, but this time there is no humor in it. He exhales and leans back, bringing his mismatched hands up onto the tabletop. “My memory begins four days ago. Everything before that is vague, at best. I told you my name, but I don’t know why it’s my name.” 

“So you don’t know who you are.”

“No. I’ve been told who I am, but I don’t buy it.” 

“Wow. That’s…”  _ Awful _ , he wants to say, but any descriptor falls short in this instance. “Well, if it’s any comfort, you picked quite possibly the most boring place to recuperate.” 

“That is comforting.” 

“What do you remember?” 

A pall crosses James’ face, and he looks as though he’s about to be sick. “Enough.” His voice is hushed. “Enough to bring me here.” 

Michael isn’t sure what  _ here _ is, whether a physical place or a state of mind, or being. Were his memories tied to this town? Or was this town just a coincidence, a temporary hiding place chosen at random? Regardless, James was troubled by his memories, and he sensed it would be best not to push him much further. 

“If there’s anything I can do, let me know. Even if you just need someone to talk to for a couple hours. Can I give you my number?”

“I don’t have a phone.” James says, blandly. 

“Oh. Well, you know where to find me, anyhow.” 

The conversation peters out after that. Michael pays the check and offers to drive James back to wherever he’s staying, but James turns him down. He walks with Michael to the car nonetheless, and just before they part ways he tells him,

“You were right, by the way. About all of it.” 

Then, he walks away in the opposite direction that they came, and Michael is left with a chill when he recalls the final part of his own conjecture:

_ You’ve probably killed someone. _

\--

James isn’t sure why he agreed to have lunch with the reverend. It wasn’t strategically necessary––quite the opposite, in fact. Michael could only be a liability from this point onward. His fear was not that Michael would accidentally divulge information, but that HYDRA would easily single him out as a way to get to James and manipulate him. They are horrifically efficient at exploiting personal connections.

His steps are deliberate and quick as he makes his way back to the motel, head down and shoulders up. The reverend’s words ricochet inside his skull:  _ You’ve lived a long time as someone else, and now you want a change. A reversal _ . Michael possessed the uncanny ability to articulate feelings that most people (or at least James) didn’t know they had, and by  _ God _ it was unnerving. And now, in the simmering stillness of the afternoon, James has the rare opportunity to think rather than react; to let the reverend’s words distill within his mind. 

As he walks, he realizes he doesn’t want to start over, or to try and become who he had once been. That was impossible. He had known this from the moment Steve Rogers had proclaimed his name:  _ James. Buchanan. Barnes. _ All he felt towards that name was distance, and to bridge that gap meant living in denial, an existence predicated on playacting. Just thinking about it made him nauseous. 

No, what he wants is to adjust the angle of his course. His life has certain infallible outcomes at this point: violence will continue to be his closest companion, in sleep and in waking; Steve Rogers can never be his friend like back then, not if they are both honest with each other; and James himself refuses to carry on as the ghost of his former self. He is not James Buchanan Barnes, he is not the Winter Soldier. He is…something else, something nebulous and undeveloped, an embryo generating its first heartbeat. The pieces of his many lives lay scattered at his feet, but the room in which he stands is dark and cold and he has not yet grasped them all. Once he holds them all, he will gather them together, form them into something new. Some _ one _ new. 

This new conviction violently burns in his chest, carrying him up the flights of stairs to his dingy motel room with no sense of time having passed. He finds himself seated on the bed, breathing in fumes and dust and feeling utterly alive for the first time he can remember. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently plowing through 1Q84 by Haruki Murakami and let's just say I was inspired. His prose style is stunning, even in translation. 
> 
> Comment and let me know what you think! <3


End file.
